Free Penumbra by Eric Brown Page B

moment. . .’
     
    He left the stage and moved into the adjoining room, quietly locking the door behind him. He approached the com-screen and loaded the recording he had made the day before. He switched on the screen. In the conference room, he could hear his relayed voice saying: ‘Thank you for your patience. Now, I think you will agree with me that the clarity of both sound and vision . . .’
     
    Heart hammering with the thrill of the risk, Klien pulled the fine net of fibre-optic capillaries from the inside pocket of his suit and drew the device over his head. In the same pocket was the activator. He fingered the touch-pad. Instantly he was aware of a haze of light in his vision. Seconds later his eyes adjusted, and he quickly slipped through the door to the corridor. To any casual observer he would no longer resemble Ezekiel Klien, but a man in his sixties with a hatchet-thin face and silver hair. The capillary net was, officially, still in its design stage. As chief of security at the spaceport, he had contacted a local software company and sponsored its manufacture. It was making his work a lot easier.
     
    He hurried along the corridor to the elevator and ascended to the fourth floor. His heart was pounding at a rate he only ever experienced on nights such as these. He tried to calculate the risk. The only possible danger was if the recording on the com-screen developed a hitch - and what an irony that would be! The pre-recorded disc would last fifteen minutes, allowing him what he considered to be more than enough time to get to the fourth floor, deal with Bhakor, and return.
     
    He knocked on the door of room 180, and seconds later it opened fractionally. A sliver of Bhakor’s dark face appeared. A blood-shot eye blinked at him. ‘Smith. Ah-cha. You have the slash?’
     
    ‘Don’t worry,’ Klien said, slipping into the room. He crossed the lounge and sat down.
     
    Bhakor returned from closing the door and lowered himself into the opposite armchair.
     
    Klien watched the man as he leaned forward nervously. It was always his main regret that he could not, before he despatched his victims, lecture them on the error of their ways, explain to them just why they had to die.
     
    Bhakor was impatient. ‘You have the slash?’
     
    Klien nodded. ‘Have you had a good life, Bhakor?’ he said.
     
    Bhakor blinked. ‘What? What do you—’
     
    ‘Are you ready to meet the judgement of your god?’
     
    Before Bhakor could react, Klien pulled the laser pistol from his inside pocket and fired at point-black range, the blast charcoaling the right side of the drug dealer’s head. He slumped back into the chair with a posthumous grunt. The flesh of his cheek was blackened and cracked and the stench of singed hair and pomade filled the room.
     
    Klien stood and pulled a razor from his pocket. Carefully, with almost loving exactitude, he sliced a crucifix in the plump flesh of the dead man’s left cheek. Then he hurried from the room, filled with an exultation and joy at the knowledge that he was doing God’s duty and sanitising this terrible world.
     
    Two minutes later he entered the small room on the third floor, pulled off his capillary net and waited five minutes for the recording to finish. He heard his voice from the next room: ‘. . . as I think you’ll agree. Thank you.’
     
    He pocketed the disc, unlocked the door and stepped through to stirring applause. He took his place on the stage, faced the audience and smiled.
     
    ‘Thank you. I can honestly say that I think that little display went very well. I, at least, am very pleased with the performance.’
     
    He wound down the talk, replying to a few predictable questions and thanking all present for being a knowledgeable and appreciative audience.
     
    He stayed behind briefly for drinks with the security team and selected guests. He made an appointment to visit the team and go through a few of the latest systems. He had to suppress a smile as